She opened the overflowing plastic
bags with learned helplessness, displaying pastries she prepared at
home.
But Uzi selected a mid-size orange and peeled it expertly, stuffing his
mouth as he progressed. The orphaned pies adorned the table that stood
between them. They both avoided looking at each other. Still with
diverted eyes she extended an uncertain hand and touched his shoulder.
He shrank under her stroke, so she withdrew and sat up, tense,
straddling the edge of a recliner.
Thus, they circled one another wearyingly. A longcase clock ticked
minutes and then hours before my aunt got up, mauling her wide-brimmed
hat, and said: "I must be going now", and Uzi nodded, devouring yet
another orange. He didn't even rise to bid farewell.
"I'll come to visit you" - she promised but her pledge sounded tinny
and rehearsed. Uzi consumed the fruit and stared intently at the floor.
His mother took my soiled palm in hers and exited the house. No one
escorted us to the gate or to the grimy station. We stood there, in the
sweltering sun, until we heard the bus, uproarious, like echoes of a
far-off battle.
Pierre's Friends
by Sam Vaknin
Pierre is terrified. Not hard to tell. The bald patches on his
egg-shaped skull exude pearly sweat from sooty pores, a salty path down
to his darkening collar.
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